He's A Liar
by editorofthequibbler
Summary: She fell. He broke the Bluebird's wings, and she fell. Now it's Tiger Lily's job to put it out of its misery. A dark story of kind of PeterxTiger Lily / PeterxWendy It's my own twisted take on Peter Pan, a lot more blood and death involved. :D Read and review x
1. He's A Liar

**Hey! I really don't get how Peter never has Tiger Lily. And I love Tiger Lily. This is really, really dark. But I enjoyed writing it. I always have disliked Wendy. She's too good.**

**So, I've written this. :D At the moment it's a one shot, but I may continue some how. Read & Review please! x**

_**He's a Liar**_

"He's a liar, you know."

The cave is dank, depressing. The Bluebird's pale eyes flicker, afraid, in the shadows. Her nightdress is ripped and torn, big black mud stains adorn the light, airy fabric.

"A liar?"

There's a tremor in her voice, that no one could ignore. The blonde bluebird adjusts her messy curls as uncertainty crashes upon her.

She fell. He broke the Bluebird's wings, and she fell. Now it's Tiger Lily's job to put it out of its misery.

With a calm smile, she draws the cool, curved shape of a knife.

This is how it always ends. The knife. The cave.

Peter finds a pretty thing to play with- a trinket- watches in tumble in love with him, fall, crash and gets impatient, bored. Birds aren't any fun unless they fly.

This one. This one is just like all the others. Blonde, blue eyes, a light airy nightgown. Tiger Lily has lost track of the treasures he's brought back. Lost track of the messes she's had to clear up.

She calls them all the same thing now. Bluebirds.

She's the cleaner. The one who tidies up before Peter ends up in a mess he can't untangle, in a mound of crushed, cutting crystal hearts.

He's never asked for it. Never thinks, silly boy. Flitting here and there with his charming, beautiful ways, never wanting to remember where the last one went: even though he knows. Knows that she's lying in this cave somewhere, without a pulse, and a heart he's broken.

This one. Ah, this one. Same as all the others. But different.

What's his nickname for this one again? No, not CharlotteBird or MandyBird or EdithBird. It's not ElsieBird or AliceBird or AmyBird. That's it. WendyBird.

Poor, broken WendyBird. She feels for this one. Because she's so good. So infuriatingly good. Peter loves good. Peter loves neat. Peter loves those shiny trinkets best of all. He always breaks those ones first. It's only been a while. A week perhaps, or is it a year?

A short while since WendyBird came. Not long enough to really enjoy what she has seen. Just long enough to be broken. And then tossed aside.

It's a long while since Tiger Lily made that pact with the Lost Boys. Make me forever young like you and I'll make sure all the pretty dolls leave.

This one has to die. Has to die. Die, even though Peter's dragged her brothers here too. They'll have forgotten her soon. They've got lost in the magic of the Lost Boys. Even this little Bluebird has forgotten where she came from. It only takes a short while.

"He loves me. Loves my blonde hair and blue eyes. He said so. He's not a liar."

Tiger Lily sighs.

Of course he is. He never realises it, but he is. A liar, a destroyer.

Slowly, Tiger Lily raises the knife.

"Don't love Peter Pan. He'll break you, whether you're a Bluebird, or a Raven."

It's the easiest kill she's ever made.

**So, shall I continue? I love PeterxTiger Lily because I just think she deserves him. This isn't really PeterxTiger Lily, but it almost is. One sided.**

**I think I'll continue it. Review Review Review, my people!**


	2. He's an Artist

**Told you it wouldn't remain a oneshot for long! I am loving writing Tiger Lily, she's so calm and cold. Tell me what you think.**

He's an Artist

Tiger Lily hates the camp. For her, it's always so busy, so bustling. There can never be anything damp, or dark: nothing ever halts. Ever.

In a way, Tiger Lily is glad of the distractions. It helps her slip away, slip to the foliage of the exotic forest, shooting down squirrels and searching for the Lost Boys. Searching for Peter.

This time, though, there is no escaping the Fire Dance. Chief Red Eagle had made sure that the girls were all ready for the event. For months, the Indian girls prepared headdresses and clothes for the night. Sewing with handmade needles, pricking fingers, shedding tears.

The Bluebird has already made her dress. It lies in the Dressing Tent, crumpled and lifeless, waiting for someone to claim it, with its embroidery of soft blue and pink. No one to dance in it now.

Tiger Lily sees it with no regret.

In the beginning, she had felt for the WendyBird, who'd been too good for the King of the Lost Boys, but the final words the pretty thing spoke had made the kill easy.

_"__He loves me. Loves my blonde hair and blue eyes. He said so. He's not a liar."_

Tiger Lily does not have blonde hair and blue eyes. Her eyes are, deep and dark: the colour of shadows, of hidden things and blackened earth, her hair is soft, and wild, burnt black with her years of hunting and fixing. As it sways around her waist, Tiger Lily adjusted the raven feather in her hair.

She had never been Peter's bird. Not TigerBird or LilyBird. She had been different, singular. She'd always been his Raven. Darker, crueller. Uglier.

Then again, it isn't her blood that decorates that damp cave floor.

"Tiger Lily?"

Sweet Owl, stout and chubby, stands at her side. Her eyes are red rimmed, and her mouth chapped. She's an odd one, Sweet Owl, bad at hunting and sewing. Bad at headdresses and building fires. She can only cook. But not very well.

She's one of the very few women in the camp who does not have long hair. It's cut short, halfway down the neck, and she often threads clay beads and wood pieces through it. Sweet Owl is strange, and kind. Her love for Tiger Lily, the only Indian Girl who had ever had any patience with her, is never ending. Tiger Lily has never minded her: she has a bountiful smile and...blood soaked hands.

"What happened Sweet Owl? Your needle, did it slip again?"

Calmly, coldly, Tiger Lily finds a rag, and tries to wiping away the red substance. It is already healing, blood drying to a distasteful brown. Beneath the mess, lies neat crossed cuts, zigzags, patterns. Pretty wounds.

"Sweet Owl? Who did this?"

Her round chubby face is surprised, upset as she splutters out a few words.

"A Lost Boy. He said he could make my hands pretty."

Scars. It's traditional with the Lost Boys. Only Peter-pretty, flitting Peter- does not wear the emblems of decorative pain. If cut the right way, the scars will heal raised, lumps of patterns of the skin. Clumsy beauty.

Tiger Lily cannot hate the Lost Boy who did this. He has maimed her, but he has maimed her beautifully. She has great respect for these mad children, who make their clumsy way with a knife and a taste for the arts. Insane artists.

But she can feel sorry for the confused face of this girl. Sweet Owl: always so kind, so innocent, so quietly pretty. Never perfect, never close, but true. Honest and loyal and real.

The Lost Boys are innocent too. They do not realise they are breaking something til it is broken. Crushed into pale little stones beneath their feet. They are loud, free wild ones: and they pull jolly darkness from this jumbled land. They want to have fun. And they have it.

She forgets how many of Bluebird's have had scars from Peter and his friends: but there are many. Many messy shapes carved on rotting human skin.

Carefully, Tiger Lily takes Sweet Owl's hands.

"This will hurt for days," she murmurs, stroking each forming ridge, each line. "You will find it difficult to work."

Sweet Owl does not try to stop her tears, as she lifts her hands to her face. Her fingertips leave blood trails across her cheeks. Even this is beautiful.

"Can...can...you stop the p...p...p..pain?"

No. Nothing can stop the pain.

"It won't be as bad tomorrow. It will be easier then. Go wash your hands in the river. Wash away the blood."

The figure slumps off, and the sobs rack her body as she does so. So many cuts. Sliced so easily.

Tiger Lily wonders which Lost Boy made the human art. Slightly, probably. He'd always been good with a knife.

The dress is still lying there. It annoys her. It's too pretty. Too sweet. Her knife is already her hands. Shredded in seconds. The cloth hits the floor in tattered strips

All gone.

**Review! I hope you liked it, my darling imaginary readers! I certainly did xxx**


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